Red Shadow

House was looking at the wall of drawers in the morgue. They were old; fronted by stainless steel, with black handles and a little clip to hold the name tag of the deceased within. The morgue at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital had storage for over forty bodies at any given time; clearly the builders didn't have as much faith in medicine nearly a hundred years ago. The brick floor had long ago been replaced with tile and the overhead lamps with florescent lights; the drawers were refrigerated now, but their number was still the same: four tall, ten across of storage for the dead.

The morgue was nearly silent and in semi-darkness, with the only light spilling in from the door leading out hallway. House checked his watch, wondering how much longer it would take. Arliss, the M. E. wouldn't be down unless there was a death tonight, which was unlikely. House settled his shoulders back against the cold tile wall and kept his gaze along the gleaming doors. It was nearly two twenty seven in the morning, and his leg was seriously complaining about the extra standing time, but House had already downed another little helper that would kick in soon.

He gripped the silver-headed cane loosely.

After another ten minutes, he looked up, alerted out of his musings about whether Cuddy was a C 36 or 38. The creak was soft, but definite, and House let his gaze move along the wall of drawers in a quick, sharp scan.

Down along the third row, three from the end, a morgue drawer door slowly swung open.

House felt the hair on the back of his neck rise; felt his balls tighten. He forced himself to stay perfectly still and overcome the primitive responses. For a long moment, nothing happened. The door stayed open, revealing the black square it had been covering, and House had to squint to see it properly. He slipped his hand into his pocket.

Long pulse beats went by, and House smelt the traces of formaldehyde, chlorine now tainted with a hint of dead roses. He watched as quietly, the tray rolled out of the drawer in a slow glide of oiled metal. It clacked when it reached the end of its extension, and the body lying on it didn't move.

House didn't move either, feeling his arms suddenly chill with goose bumps, his jaw tighten in a reaction he couldn't control. Shadows loomed and stretched. Finally, the feet flexed. The toe tag rattled softly; with a sudden lurch the body sat up. House pressed back against the wall, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste a hint of blood.

The body turned her head stiffly, looking around the morgue. Her glance passed over the room for a moment, then she snapped her gaze to the right so quickly that her hair swung loosely.

House kept his gaze on her paper gowned chest; he knew better than to look into her lurid red stare, so like the banked glow of a pyre. He cocked his head and waited, forcing his shoulders to relax; his damp palm gripped the cane more tightly and the other hand flexed in his pocket.

With the slow sinuous movements of a pale viper, the body slipped sideways and got to her bare feet; House noticed the pink polish on her toenails as she glided over to him. All his nerves were on high alert, and the smell of dead roses mingled with the sharp stench of fruit long rotted and gray with mold. House forced himself to look at her chin, her neck of marble white. The urge raise his gaze higher grew stronger with every step closer she came.

House closed his eyes. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, and the soft hiss of falling rice echoed off the tile walls of the morgue, the grains scattering everywhere in a cascade.

The body froze, her attention shifting instantly to the spilled mess. Rice rattled, small polished bits rolling out of the darkness into the light coming in from the hallway beyond the morgue. House held his breath, and for eternity the cold room stood in stillness.

He wanted to breathe. He wanted to look more closely at her and knew if she caught his gaze he'd be lost in those gutted flames of her eyes.

The body moved, bending down to the rice. There was no sigh since there was no breath, but the slump of her shoulders in the paper gown made it clear that this time, folklore was right. House waited until she turned a pale palm up and began to drop grains into it one by one before he shifted his weight and brushed by her.

Cold.

He moved carefully, not wanting to slip on the mess that was saving his life. At the door he stepped through and looked down the hallway. Chances were better than ninety percent that she already had Arliss under her influence, and that he'd either see nothing when he came back to the morgue, or that he'd be her sustenance for the night if House couldn't keep him out.

One day earlier

House had come to a decision. He had a room full of brains; good ones, and not likely to dismiss his whim if he bullied them. Carefully he leaned on the whiteboard and wrote a list of symptoms down, his letters thick and strong on the gleaming white surface.

Extreme sensitivity to sunlight

Altered nutritional needs

Halitosis (severe)

Anemic complexion

Possible dental anomalies

Hemophagia

"Diagnosis?" House demanded with a smirk he didn't feel. Cameron was taking the list seriously; Foreman was leaning back, rolling his eyes and Chase was trying not to grin.

"Come on House—watch too many Hammer horror films over the weekend?" Foreman muttered. Cameron looked slightly confused.

"What?"

"He's pulling our leg. Look at the symptoms—" Chase murmured softly. "--The only other two to add to that list would be negative respiration and negative pulse, right?"

Cameron got it, and shot House an incredulous look that he ignored as he sipped his coffee. Foreman finally gave a noisy sigh. "You really expect us to do a differential diagnosis on vampirism?"

"Why not? Got bigger plans today?" House shot back. "Call it a good exercise is hypothetical thinking, an extended look at a malady with a historic precedent of sorts."

"Taking into account that it's completely fictional—" Foreman snorted, crossing his arms. Chase cocked his head thoughtfully.

"I dunno--there had to be a basis for it somewhere though—too many legends in too many countries; too many similarities for sheer coincidence."

"Isn't the consensus that most cases were probably attributable to porhyria?" Cameron murmured, chin in hand, "erythropoietic porphyria more precisely?"

"Yes," House murmured, looking back at the whiteboard. "And that works as long as the patient is alive. It's when the symptoms continue after alleged death that bothers me. Pumping a patient full of Hematin and haem arginate once they've stopped breathing seems like such a waste of perfectly good drugs."

"Once they've stopped breathing, they stop being our patients," Foreman snapped.

"They just become our pain in the necks—" Chase punned, earning himself a muffled giggle from Cameron and a roll of the eyes from House.

"Chase, Chase, Chase—something tells me you're not taking this seriously. Since you're willing to speak up, why don't you share with all of us what the traditional treatment would be for our post-terminal patient."

"A one meter stake, preferably seasoned ash or rosewood, hammered through the thoracic cavity with enough force to penetrate the four chambers of the heart. If the patient doesn't spontaneously turn to dust, then filling the mouth with garlic is reccommended." At the incredulous looks from Cameron and Foreman, Chase shrugged a little. "What can I say? My mother was a Christopher Lee fan."

"Let's hope she never went from stalker to staker—any further suggestions?" House looked around at the other two. Foreman managed a cynical smile.

"I thought you were supposed to cut their heads off. Vampire or not, that would DEFINITELY inhibit any ambulation from that point on," he drawled.

"Right—so you'd just get the patient to lie down on the exam table, whip out a Bahco number eight and just start sawing away," Cameron smirked. "I doubt you'd get the consent form signed for a procedure like that."

"Next of kin," Chase pointed out knowingly. Or permission from the wronged party. Even a verbal permission qualifies."

"The wronged party . . . " House mused. "So the standard staking or beheading are effective treatments." Inwardly he was amused to see all three of them taking the hypothetical situation with more interest.

Cameron frowned prettily. "And sunlight. I suppose if you can't get the vampire to step out into daylight you could always turn one of those Maglites on them."

"I thought it had to be natural sunlight—" Chase objected. "Othewise you could just flood a cemetery with Klieg lights and be done with it, right?"

"It's not like we can put it to the test," Foreman interrupted with barely suppressed annoyance. "Since nobody's been diagnosed with vampirism lately."

"Not officially. But consider: the disease basically transforms the patient into a parasite, the search for a host or food source would become primary, right? All organisms adapt and strive to live—in this case the infection acts as a parasite within the host—our patient—who then becomes one GIANT parasite with the capacity to reproduce and pass on the original infectious agent," House rattled off.

"Back up to the 'not officially' part," Foreman grumbled, impressed with the explanation, but still not willing to give in completely. "Has a patient actually presented all of these symptoms you've listed?"

House held the pause for a moment, not meeting anyone's eyes. He set his marker down on the tray and reluctantly sighed. "No. No patient has presented these symptoms here at the hospital."

Yet, he added mentally.

His conversation with Wilson hadn't gone well.

"Want to stay up all night with me here at the hospital and hunt for vampires?"

"Wow," Wilson dimpled lightly. "Incredibly tempting as that is, I was planning on going home and planting a stake somewhere else tonight."

"I thought you and Julie were on the outs." House accused, studying the other man's face.

"We . . . still have good sex," Wilson admitted with wry amusement. "Oddly, the knowledge that we're separating tends to make things more interesting."

"You're rehearsing infidelity and getting off on the guilty pleasure. That's so very—" House trailed off, making a moue.

"—Jewish?"

"—Typical. For you, anyway. Fine. If you can't make it, maybe I can get Cuddy to be my girly sidekick. She doesn't scream as well as you do, but I like her necklines better."

"I'll make it a point to sob myself to sleep tonight. I hope you're not planning on hauling around any stakes—Security will take them away from you, you know," Wilson replied serenely as he picked up a chart from the desk and stepped into exam room three in the clinic.

House shot his back a withering look, and lumbered his way out again. He hadn't expected Wilson to take him seriously, but the company would have been nice.

For a moment he debated NOT going to Cuddy; despite his suspicions, the lack of hard evidence bothered him. As a doctor and a scientist, it annoyed him to harbor a hypothesis with no factual data beyond sick leave and lost supply records. A pattern hinted at but not solid. The only bright spot was that there was enough of one there to intrigue the Dean of Medicine if he laid it out right. And if all else failed he could argue with her until midnight and she'd be forced to come along.

House made his way to Cuddy's office and quietly opened the door, looking in. Very slowly a smirk crossed his face.

"Those have to be pectoral implants . . . " She muttered, flipping to the next page of the beefcake calendar, oblivious to House slipping inside the door. " . . . Definitely."

"Doctor Cuddy, I'm SHOCKED!" House shot out, delighted to see Cuddy flush brick red and fumble with the calendar in her hands. She looked up at him and scowled, dropping the glossy set of pages on her desk, but House loomed over it and sneered. "You sick little monkey."

"Oh give me a break," Cuddy muttered weakly. "My last clinic patient gave it to me as a thank-you for clearing up his sinuses."

"Likely story—so who was he? Mr. July?"

"Mr. March, actually—" Cuddy shot back, toying with her pearls, "Ironic he'd be featured in the month with the most hay fever cases. So, any reason for this drop-in harassment?"

"Yes. Once you wipe the drool off your chin I need you to issue me a UP key for the evening," House replied, still sneering at the calendar. He absently reached over and began flipping through the months, his expression souring. Cuddy shot him a withering stare.

"A universal pass key. And just why, pray tell, would I even CONSIDER giving you access through every door in this hospital, House?"

"Because we have a dangerous parasite located somewhere in this hospital," he grimly replied, looking up at her so sharply she hesitated. When he didn't smirk, she met him stare for stare.

"Tell me what you're talking about," came her quiet order. House paused, and then came around her desk, unceremoniously pulling her keyboard towards himself and typing quickly. Slightly affronted, Cuddy watched him pull up a few different screens. When House glanced at her, she rolled her eyes and gave up her seat for him; he dropped himself into and finally did smirk.

"Still warm--"

"Get on with it," Cuddy snapped, leaning on the desk. House did. Moving one long hand along the screen, he spoke in a low tone.

"We're going back about a month, maybe five weeks—the ER has a sudden run on the blood supply, but in the course of that, three units of O positive go missing. Your head nurse down there is good enough about keeping records to note it, but can't account for where they've gone."

"Missing blood?" Cuddy asked. House nodded, his attention on the screen.

"Two days later, it happens again. Three units missing from the refrigerated supply for the ambulance restocking room, no accountability for it—no biohazard spill reports, no tainted disposal reports, no doctor authorization for it—just gone. It's pretty nice that almost all the records for the hospital are computerized, because it makes cross-referencing a lot easier."

Cuddy gave a little headshake of disbelief. "So we've got missing blood. Maybe someone's stealing it and selling it. We've had problems with the pharmacy before."

"Possible, but unlikely—the blood banks around here know our juice. I called and checked—nobody's been offering up any PPTH labeled blood, but there is a note in the janitor's log for a few days later that an empty packet was found in the women's bathroom down in Radiology."

"Just one?" came her question as she stared intently at the screen. House turned his head and looked at her, his eyes narrowing. For a long silent moment he glared hard; slowly his expression shifted from professional concern to controlled anger. Cuddy closed her eyes a moment, then turned to face him, meeting his flinty gaze head on.

"You KNOW something," he accused in the low compelling tone. Cuddy swallowed, not saying anything for a moment. Then she dropped her gaze and gave the tiniest of nods.

"Before I say another damned word I need to lock the door." She pushed herself away from the desk and did just that as House watched her, slightly alarmed. When she returned, Cuddy took a deep breath. "What I'm about to say isn't known to another person at this hospital, and for good reason."

House didn't interrupt; he cocked an eyebrow and kept his gaze on her as she perched one hip on the desk. He watched her fiddle with her fingers, twisting them around each anxiously, and the sight of that set off faint alarms within him. Cuddy didn't GET nervous. Irritated and bossy, yes, but even in the face of crises and catastrophes she managed to rise above and still maintain an air of complete confidence that rarely faltered publicly or privately. Seeing this little sign made him narrow his gaze.

"All right. I need you to promise you'll sign a nondisclosure agreement after I finish tell you this, House. No argument, no bullshitting here. Either you agree, or I have nothing to say from this point on." Came her low, emphatic demand.

He debated internally with the question; a tendency to balk came naturally to him, but the look on Cuddy's face cut that short. House gave a reluctant nod. She drew a deep breath.

"Okay, she sighed softly, "Here goes. Within the offices of the CDC Infectious Diseases is a special division—covert if you will-- that deals with . . . pathogens of antiquity. Ancient Afflictions. They track various plagues and diseases whose pathologies haven't yet been determined. Stuff of . . . " Cuddy looked slightly mortified, "—legend."

"I don't deal in legends, Cuddy. Facts," House couldn't resist sneering. "The nature of EVERY disease has a traceable history and you damned well know it."

"Yeah, well I've seen the bioanalysis write-up for what we're facing and it covers a fifteen by twenty two foot wall, Greg. And the authenticated documentation for it goes back to stone tablets and cave walls. Once I became dean here I was indoctrinated about the AA division and the necessity to work with them to stop any potential outbreaks of Hemophagic virus. When we're done here I can give you authorization to look into the research in Atlanta if you want, but right now I've got to verify the contamination and go to code, so move over—"

House let her reach across him and tap the keyboard, pulling up a few different screens through the CDC site until she reached one he hadn't seen before. Cuddy leaned closer, scowling.

"This would be easier if you would let me sit DOWN—" came her grouse. House patted his lap; Cuddy rolled her eyes. House gave a hurt smirk.

"Suuuure, you can look at beefy calendars, but one little lapsit and you go all prissy on me. See if I let you use my cane to impale our Undead friend."

"Actually, I have my own stakes—" Cuddy murmured absently, typing in a password and missing the sudden narrowing of his gaze. The screen flared up and changed color abruptly, going to a cobalt blue. Cuddy typed again and a form popped up:

CDC DEPARTMENT AA

INITIAL SIGHTING REPORT: Please fill out with as many pertinent details as possible. Your report is simultaneously being sent to the nearest Dispatch office to your area. Estimated TOA for Dispatch team: 26 hrs.

"Okay, you said three blood packets reported for each incident?" Cuddy murmured, her long fingers flying.

"More or less, yes—" came his reply as he leaned forward and watched her type. They were shoulder to shoulder at the desk, staring at the screen.

"Okay, that means we have only one vampire roaming around then. Probably thrilled to have a safe haven and a steady food supply. All I can't figure out is how it got in—"

"Dispatch? As in storming the hospital?" House muttered. "Some sort of vampire-disposing SWAT team?"

Cuddy drew in a breath. "If it comes to that—the CDC Ancient Afflictions office is pretty good at cover stories. Remember that blackout last summer in Atlantic City? Created just to stop the media from finding out about a rogue vampire in a nursing home—" she sighed. "Every three months I'm required to go to meetings regarding this county's statistics on this. Hospitals are preferred targets you know."

House gave a preoccupied nod, his mind racing. He squinted at the screen again, looking at the sketchy details that Cuddy typed in, and snorted. He lightly pushed her hands from the keyboard and took over, his typing speed much faster than hers, the clackity-clack of the keys loud in the empty office.

"Blood has two Os, not three. And it's LiSa, not, Lida—" Cuddy pointed out. House rolled his eyes.

"Picky, picky. We're dealing with a potential epidemic and you're criticizing my spelling, " he groused. "Let's focus on priorities, shall we?"

"Come on, I have standards—" Cuddy snapped back, "At least for spelling my own NAME."

House hit the enter key and glanced over at Cuddy. Her expression in profile startled him; he hadn't seen her afraid in a long time.

"Lisa—" he asked in a low voice. She shook her head, as if to dislodge her momentary weakness, then reached for her desk drawer.

"Shit." The word came out quietly, and with a hint of self-consciousness. Cuddy didn't swear often either. She fished out a ring of keys as she spoke. "I have twenty six hours to find the vampire and verify the incident. And, if possible, dispose of it myself. I mean I've taken the training and kept up on the procedure, but I haven't actually . . . done it."

House kept looking at her, fighting a flood of questions. A part of his mind was maliciously, gleefully delighted that his deductive skills HAD picked up on the trail of clues. Another part was scoffing at the very idea of vampires or of Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine, staking one out for that matter.

He wondered if he'd finally OD'ed and this was all some hallucination, but Cuddy suddenly slid a hand deep into her cleavage and pulled out a thin silver chain, letting the tiny Star of David charm glitter in the light. House stared at it dumbly for a moment.

"I thought it was supposed to be a cross," he muttered. Cuddy's mouth twisted in a wry smile.

"Any symbol of what you have faith in. Which means in YOUR case you ought to wear your DMV photo, I guess." She shot back. House winced a fraction and Cuddy went on. "Not that it matters. You're going home, House. You're not trained for this—I am."

"Right." He agreed. "One woman—a highly efficient one, but a single one nonetheless—to search an entire five story hospital by herself for a vampire. Not going to happen, Cuddles. Resourceful you may be, but that's too much territory and not enough time. You need my help whether you like it or not."

Cuddy glared at him and House saw her struggle not to snap at him, to yell the way she so clearly WANTED to. If the situation hadn't been so surrealistically ludicrous he would have laughed.

"House—" she began, trying to look calm and not succeeding by much, "—It's dangerous. Not glamorous; dangerous. And if I don't succeed, you're going to need to tell the Dispatch team everything you know and keep this hospital safe." Her tone was firm, but House heard the little waver of uncertainty in it and that faint hint of her own vulnerability made him grip the handle of his cane more tightly.

He rose up, looking grim. "Enough with the heroic speech. It's nearly five o'clock now, and by best estimate we have about five hours until whatever this thing is can even begin to come out of hiding. So from now until then, we search. We'll do this logically; but hierarchy of needs. Blood source first, right? Then darkness? Privacy?"

Cuddy shifted her keys from one hand to the other and nodded, looking slightly relieved. "The blood storage areas first, that's logical. We have the main one off the labs, then smaller ones in Oncology, the ER, the clinic and Maternity for starters, along with the Ambulance restock. Come on, I have to get my kit."

"Sack 'o stakes?" House asked, half in jest. Cuddy let one corner of her mouth go up and merely looked at him. She moved to the wall safe tucked between the bookcases. Kneeling gracefully, she dialed the combination and pulled the heavy door open, then fished inside while House ambled over to watch. Out slid a green canvas backpack with a biohazard emblem and the CDC seal imprinted on it. The tags were locked shut. Cuddy heaved it up at House and he caught it, the weight making him lurch forward a bit; he frowned.

"What the hell is IN here?"

"Four stakes, one mallet, a sack of rice, three vials of Holy water, a velvet bag of silver religious emblems, a syringe of curare, tube of garlic extract, evidence bags, report forms, and an incendiary bomb," Cuddy rattled off quickly. House blinked as she shut the safe again and rose up, her jaw set.

"You. Are. Serious."

"House—" she leaned in to look at him, and for one long intensely painful moment he could smell the fear radiating from her skin, see the flutter of her pulse at her throat as Cuddy spoke in a husky voice. "I've seen this . . . contagion. I watched a staking, live—or dead if you prefer, and this is not something to fuck around with. This virus or whatever the hell the correct pathology is—it's as old as civilization, and it hasn't been conquered or contained or controlled in thousands of years. It's not curable; if either of us end up with an exchange of blood with this thing, the CDC is fully authorized to kill us. I'm already aware that there are already personnel HERE who will . . . disappear with the dispatch team. MY people, Greg—" she choked, "—So, yeah. Serious. The out still stands. If you want to leave, now's the time."

House gripped the shoulder straps, squeezing them until they cut into his hand. The wild and mixed urges running through him were too countless to number: To laugh, to nod, to pinch himself, to call the Psych ward; but quelling them all was the sudden rise of fury, black and righteous that flooded him at the sight of Cuddy's fear. The oddly compelling impulse to . . . protect her—he didn't know where it came from, but it was there, and in truth there was only one answer to her offer.

"Be vewy, vewy quiet . . . we're hunting vampires—" House growled, swinging the backpack onto his shoulder.

9:32 P.M.

"So why the garlic?"

"The current theory is that the scent of it disrupts the host's ability to scent blood, although there may be more to it than just that," Cuddy replied, slowly locking up the Oncology Bio-storage door. House checked his watch and frowned to himself.

"Okay, we've been at it for nearly six hours and what do we have to show for it so far?"

"Not a hell of a lot," Cuddy admitted wearily. "The last place with more than two personnel out sick was here, in Oncology. Where else do we go?"

House led the way to the waiting area; here the carpeting was thick underfoot and the place empty. He dropped himself down onto one of the sofas and eased his right leg out across the cushions, sighing.

"If you'd agree to split up, we could cover a lot more territory," came his grouse. Cuddy sat in one of the armchairs, slumping a little herself as she dropped the backpack next to the chair.

"If we split up, we'll have to divide the contents of the bag. And neither of us would have backup if we DID find the vampire. We've been OVER this, Greg—" She grumbled, sliding one foot free of her high heel and reaching down to rub her instep through her stockings. House looked over and watched, simple male fascination on his face. Cuddy waggled her toes. "What?"

"Legs AND cleavage, yowsa."

"I thought," Cuddy gritted her teeth, "That one of the side effects of long term Vicodin use was a dampening of the libido."

"Not in my case. House males are known for their breeding stamina and extended performance. We laugh at Viagra; sneer at Cialis—"

"—But point in fact, require Rogaine?" Cuddy snapped back.

House scowled, reaching over to poke her hip with his cane and she pushed it away. "Hey, you started it—"

"Two can play at the prescription game, Doctor Cuddy. I seem to recall you yourself have more than one on record that might not want to see the light of day," he threatened. Cuddy blanched a little, but set her mouth in a grim line.

"You. Wouldn't. Dare."

House let his mouth curve in a faint smile, and arched an eyebrow at her. "We've played poker, Cuddles—ask yourself if I'm bluffing or not."

"Anyone can contract Impetigo, House," she muttered sulkily.

"That's why clinic doctors should wash their hands," he replied in a lofty tone, not looking at her. Neither of them spoke for a moment, then House sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Okay, let's work on this logically here—where are the places you can find a corpse in a hospital?"

Cuddy thought for a moment. "The morgue and the autopsy bays, but all our bodies are pretty well documented. Will Arliss runs a tight ship down there."

"Yeah, but he's also the only one on duty tonight."

She looked irritated, and then worried. "How do you KNOW that?"

"He owes me money. I keep tabs on people who owe me money," House replied shortly. "So I figure if one of us looks around the morgue and the other the autopsy bay, we might luck out and find our parasite."

Cuddy said nothing for a moment, then nodded gently; she pulled the backpack up to her lap and unlocked it, tugging it open. House looked on, interested as she fished out the baggie full of rice and handed it to him.

"Here. For some weird reason, the parasite kicks up a tendency for OCD within the host so you can distract them if you need to. Just drop the rice in front of them and get yourself out of the area. If you drop enough you can keep them busy until they're required to sleep."

"Rice. Got it." House muttered, sticking the bag in his pocket. "What about you?"

"Me? I've got the stakes," Cuddy pulled one free from the bag and hefted it in her hand, the move casually confident. The wood gleamed dark and varnished, tapering to a definite, dangerous point. House eyed it and gave a slow shake of his head.

"And that's standard issue from the CDC?"

"You bet. Oh, and one thing more, Greg. Don't look it in the eyes. Hard as hell not to, but you can't, not for longer than a few seconds." She carefully replaced the stake and lifted her gaze to him, sighing heavily. "Splitting up is a bad idea, but we're running out of time. Which do you want—bay or morgue?"

"Morgue. Why doesn't Arliss know?"

"Government policy," Cuddy laughed without humor. "The Surgeon General's office wants to keep as few people as possible aware of the situation. And quite honestly, no vampire SHOULD have been able to get in. Our security systems throughout this place are built with silver as the primary conductor so I'm still trying to figure out the breakdown point."

"That's easy," House grunted, rising to his feet. "The ambulance bay on the west side—the one that wasn't up to code. Two days of construction and no electricity there, remember?"

"Crap." Cuddy replied after a moment's thought. "That would do it. And now . . . "

" . . . Now it's trapped here. Not that it cares, probably. Lots of blood in a hospital."

"Yeah, but losses are easier to spot," Cuddy pointed out. "Smaller community, limited opportunities."

House nodded. They stood for a moment longer in the Oncology waiting area, taking wordless comfort in sharing the truth, then Cuddy shouldered the backpack and sighed.

"Check in once in a while, okay?"

House nodded.

2:32 A.M.

He pulled out his cell phone as he stood at the basement elevators, his spine pressed against the wall. Cuddy picked up on the second ring. "Greg?"

"Hit the jackpot. She's been taking her freezer naps down here. Where's Arliss?" he demanded. Over the line, Cuddy laughed shortly.

"You saw her? I'll be right there. I don't know where Arliss is--I thought you were keeping track of him."

House looked down the silent hallway leading back to the morgue; one of the florescent lights at the very end flickered. He felt his balls tighten and moving quickly he jabbed the elevator button.

"There haven't been any reported deaths tonight so he wasn't down here—" he muttered, trying to keep is voice level. The light stopped flickering for a moment.

Then it went out, with a soft little 'pop.'

House reached over along the wall and smacked the elevator button as the quick rise of nausea rose in his throat. He kept his focus on the hallway, eyes locked on the white scuffed linoleum and pale green walls. Cuddy's voice rattled in his ear.

"Is she still there? "

"Rice," House hissed, straining to hear the 'ding' of the elevator behind him. "I did the rice thing. How fast do they count?"

"Very. Why doesn't this damned elevator come?"

"Because I'M trying to get it down here!" came his exasperated growl. "Get your OWN elevator."

"Fine. I'll take the stairs—" came her terse response, and before House could say another word the click of disconnection echoed in his ear. He blinked and then hit the elevator button once more. The hallway remained empty, and House had nearly relaxed when the first faint scent of decaying roses reached his nose. In quick response his jaw tightened and he felt his scalp tingle as adrenaline flashed through his system; even the muscles around his thigh tensed, sending needles of pain through his system.

The growing clatter of Cuddy's heels on the concrete stairwell reached him; he reluctantly pocketing his phone and turned his head to glance at her when the door opened.

"Crap. I smell her—" she muttered, sidling to stand next to him along the wall, holding the bag in front of her. House snagged it and scowled, irritated at having Cuddy see him against the wall. She was looking towards the end of the hall. "The light's burnt out."

"Just happened," House replied in a low voice. "And the next one's starting to flicker." He felt the warmth of Cuddy's shoulder against his, and that small bit of comfort worked.

"No—" Cuddy protested, but in contradiction to her outburst, the second furthest set of florescent lights began to blink in a slow strobe. She bit back a little moan.

"None of that," came House's sharp order. "Let's think about this. She's trying to force an advantage here—darkness would help her move around."

"I'm not going to try and stake a vampire in the DARK, Greg—"

"She's not staying put!" House snapped. "If she's making the lights go out, then she's tampering with the circuit breakers, or disrupting the cables. Either way, she's not IN the morgue any more."

Cuddy took a deep breath; House admiringly noticed, shooting her a sidelong glance as she spoke, more calmly this time. "So where IS she?"

"My guess would be that she's gone through the walkthrough janitor's closet by Arliss's office to the Physical Therapy pool on the other side," he replied, thinking hard. "The only other elevator down to this level is on the other side of that."

Pushing herself off the wall, Cuddy gave a shake of her head. "That elevator gets locked after six every night. She'll be stuck in the locker room. Come on."

House snagged her arm mid-charge; startled, Cuddy swung back into him ungracefully, the CDC bag hitting his shoulder as she herself smacked up against his chest. House glared down at her. "Let's just think about this for a minute, okay Buffy? If we don't want her to get past us, we need to shut down THESE elevators . . . " he trailed off, acutely aware that very nicely rounded bits of Cuddy were now pressed up against him. Those, combined with the determined sparkle of her eyes and the startled O of her mouth weren't helping matters at all.

"Oh my God. You have a hard on!" she hissed in accusation, looking rattled. House rolled his eyes even as a faint flush rose on his cheeks.

"Adrenaline and stress make for the typical male response—" he shot back, albeit a bit weakly. "Worry about your OWN stakes, okay?"

Cuddy looked up at the ceiling. "I don't believe it. We're in a highly dangerous situation that requires serious concentration from BOTH of us, and YOU have a boner. This is ridiculous!"

"Ya think? And stop rubbing—that's not exactly helping Mr. Happy, okay?" House groused. Before Cuddy could finish her snicker, the second set of lights silently went out.

They tensed, all humor gone. Carefully Cuddy pulled away from him and opened the backpack, fishing for the velvet sack of religious symbols. She pulled out the silver Star of David and gripped it reverently. "Av ha-rachameem shocheyn m'romeem—" came her gentle whisper as she stepped forward. House followed up behind her, fascinated. Together they moved down the hall and into the semidarkness, both turning to face the bay doors of the morgue.

The sound of wrenching metal echoed off the walls; a quiet screechy sound of torqued steel. House looked in quickly through the window of the door and shook his head at Cuddy.

"Not in there. Drawer I found her in is empty. And the door to the office is open."

"So she's in the locker room. That's good—she's not going to want to get in the water. We've got her trapped." Cuddy shifted the Star of David in her hands gently. She looked up at House and for the second time he saw the hollow-eyed fear on her face. Cuddy managed a sickly laugh. "Hey Greg, if we get done before midnight I'll take you to Waffle World—my treat."

"Oh gee, with an incentive like THAT—" he snarled lightly, striving for normalcy, for comfort in the familiar. "And it's Double bacon Wednesday, too—"

"Shhhh—" Moving carefully, Cuddy pushed open the door of the morgue and flicked on the switch on the wall; instantly the room was flooded with harsh light, making both House and Cuddy squeeze their eyes shut. Cuddy recovered first and scanned the tiled room. The odor of overripe fruit still hung in the air and the one pallet for the open drawer was extended like an empty diving board.

Cuddy shot a look at House, who was staring over her head towards the office. He held out a hand, whispering hoarsely. "Give me your badge."

"What?" she protested even as he reached over and plucked it from the waistband of her skirt. House stepped to her side, then pointed with his chin to the door next to the office; the one marked Custodian.

"She ripped the doorknob off on the janitor's closet."

"Damn," Cuddy gulped.

For a moment they both stood staring, then with unplanned synchronicity, both House and Cuddy stepped forward, towards the Chief Pathologist's office. It was empty, but the light lacing of red spatters on the floor spoke volumes.

"She got him," House deduced. "He must have been stashed in one of the other drawers, or laid out somewhere like a snack stored away. And she's going to be pissed that we forced her to drain him."

"House—" Cuddy muttered in a monotone, "Not that it matters, but it just would have been a matter of time anyway. The CDC is going to want his body too." Carefully she unzipped the backpack and yanked out one of the stakes, her elegant fingers wrapping around it tightly. House held out his hand; she hesitated a moment, then handed him the stake and reached for another one out of the bag. Crookedly she smiled.

"What's my badge for?"

For a moment House blinked at her, then stared down at the little plastic card he had pinned against his silver-headed cane with his thumb. "Yeah, well you mentioned symbols of protection; things that would terrify her. I figure your photo ought to do it, you know."

Impulsively, Cuddy stuck her tongue out at him, and House smirked. "SO mature there, Lisa. And if that's an offer—"

The rattle of a metal locker door cut into the exchange and whatever Cuddy was going to say died on her lips. She squared her shoulders and nodded. "Okay . . . let's just—"

House lumbered forward and nudged her shoulder with his, his voice low. "Double bacon Wednesday. You and me, we're going to get waffles and toast and maybe a side order of hashbrowns—"

They cautiously walked through the janitor's closet.

The door on the other side hung open and the scent of chlorine and water hung in the air. Cautiously Cuddy prodded it open further with her foot, and it swung wider, revealing the Princeton Plainsboro Physical Therapy pool in the dim light.

The pool itself was half the size of an Olympic one, with a wheelchair ramp and several ladders descending into the still water. Cuddy glanced at House, and they moved through the door; she tried to soften her heel clicks against the tiles underfoot. House swung his gaze around, senses on high alert, wary for any movement anywhere. To the left of them was the entrance to the men's locker room; to the right of the janitor's door lay the women's. Cuddy bit back a gasp as she darted to the edge of the deep end in front of them.

Drifting in the water, a corpse in green surgical scrubs floated face down, a faint tinge of red rimming the water around the body. Cuddy leaned out, reaching but it was too far. She set down the bag and wrestled out of her suit jacket as House gave a sigh of exasperation.

"He's DEAD, Lisa. There isn't any—"

She dropped her feet into the water, then slid the rest of the way in and swam to the body, snagging one pant leg. House rolled his eyes as Cuddy dragged the mortal remains of Will Arliss back to the side of the pool. She lifted herself out, rising sleekly from the water and gave a shiver.

"Remind m-m-me to h-h-heat this during off hours . . ." Came her moan as she bent for Will's arms and with a strain, pulled him up over the edge onto the side. Water splashed over the tiles, soaking her jacket. House said nothing.

Part of him was fascinated with Cuddy's courage, and dedication—she hadn't hesitated a second on seeing Will in the water. Part of him was furious with her recklessness in pointlessly going after what was clearly a corpse.

And part of him was locked onto the way her thin white blouse had gone transparent, molding itself to the most fabulous set of tits he'd seen in a while. The water had worked it's magic on her lace bra as well, and the beautifully saucy perk of her nipples through the clinging fabric brought grateful throbs from his erection.

She noticed his stare, and scowled, her makeup giving her a slightly raccoon look as the mascara ran. "G-Give me your jacket."

"What?" distracted, House glanced at her expression, and flinched. Cuddy tucked one arm over her chest and used the heel of the other hand to wipe her eyes, smearing most of the runny streaks clear. Impatiently she reached out a hand to him.

"Your jacket, I'm freezing and you can stop looking at my boobs any time now."

"Do I have to?" he whined, meaning it for both requests. Cuddy's scowl deepened. With a regretful sigh, House slowly began shifting his cane and pulling off his sports coat. Cuddy took it and draped it over her shoulders quickly while House bent and handed her the stake and Star of David she'd set down in her retrieval of Arliss's body.

"All right. She's in here somewhere. Which locker room?" he murmured. "It's a fifty-fifty chance for either, and we can't afford to guess wrong, otherwise she could get away."

"No." Cuddy spat out. She dug in the backpack and pulled out the little velvet bag, grabbing the tube of garlic extract. Swiftly she squirted it over the door of the janitor's closet, and then hung a silver crucifix on the sign; as she did so, the emblem glowed faintly with a bluish light. Startled, Cuddy stepped back

House sucked in a breath, impressed against his will at the phenomenon. Cuddy was whispering more Hebrew under her breath. She turned, holding up the Star of David. It glittered as reflections from the pool hit it, and when Cuddy turned it towards the women's locker room, a sudden, visible thrum seemed to emanate off the six points.

"Whoa—" House blinked. Cuddy gave a soft, satisfied laugh and nodded.

"In there. We can do this, Greg—the CDC will be here by seven tonight, and we could have this all wrapped up."

House bent to pick up the backpack and slowly followed as Cuddy, one arm outstretched and the other clutching the stake, stepped forward. "Sh'ma Yisrael Adonai Elohaynu Adonai Echad—"

The Star glowed more brightly as they crossed the open black doorway into the locker room.

"Barukh Shem k'vod malkhuto l'olam va-ed—"Cuddy continued. House chimed in after her, his low voice blending with hers on the next stanza. "V-ahavta et Adonai Elohecha b-chol l'vavcha u-v-chol naf'sh'cha u-v-chol m'odecha--"

They turned the corner, entering the main dressing area, and Cuddy fumbled for the light switch, using the blunt end of the stake to flip it. The lights came on, flooding the room. Several benches were bolted to the floor, and a bank of tall grey metal lockers stood against one wall. There were several sinks, and mirrors along another.

"House, you're not Jewish---"

"What's your point?"

"Hebrew?"

"Internet—" he admitted lightly, looking around. He glanced at Cuddy's badge under his thumb, not surprised now to see her photo glowing faintly, along with the caduceus next to it.

The scent of moldy fruit hung in the air again, mingled with chlorine and despite the light, a chill permeated everywhere. House limped to the wall of lockers and stared.

All of them were closed; a few with locks.

All but one.

He turned his head to catch Cuddy's eye, and when he did so, in that spilt second of inattention, the locker door flew open, smacking against the one next to it with a metallic bang like rifle shot. House staggered back as the blast of rotting chill. Instinctively he swung his cane, handle first, and the steaming hiss as the silver connected with the vampire's cheek echoed in the locker room.

The vampire shrieked, a high caterwaul of outrage. She lunged out of the locker, hands extended to House, long white bones of her fingers curling to snag his throat. She knocked him down, and together they landed on the rubber matting of the locker room floor with a heavy thump.

House flailed, trying to use his forearms to keep her from lunging any closer. The charnel stench of her breath, rolling out from between the stilettos of her fangs choked him, and in a last desperate attempt, he thrust the one item still in his hand forward, into her face.

Cuddy's badge. It lodged vertically in the vampire's jaws, wedging there, holding that ferocious bite open. House stared up, mesmerized by the black pit of the vampire's mouth, by the sight of the plastic badge glowing with a pure silvery shimmer.

And then came the punch to his chest.

On him, the vampire tensed, caught in a rictus of agony, her body hardening. House looked up, over her shoulder to see Cuddy press the Star of David between the vampire's shoulder blades.

"For the foulness you've brought to MY hospital—" Cuddy growled, and House FELT the impact of that downward drive of the stake, the slick squelchy PUNCH of varnished wood piercing the back of the vampire's rib cage. The force of the strike pushed the air from his lungs and he gasped for a moment struggling for breath as on him, the vampire writhed, wet, bloody cracks ripping through her face.

With a shove, House rolled out from under her; the vampire stiffened and shrieked again, the scream echoing off the walls, the sound like pottery shards dragged over glass. Panting, House got to his hands and knees; Cuddy had a two-fisted grip on the end of the stake and was leaning into it, driving it hard on the left side of the vampire's spine.

"NOBODY kills in my hospital!" came the furious growl, and House felt the beginning of a slightly hysterical laugh rising up in the back of his throat as Cuddy continued to do just that. He reached for his cane just as the vampire vomited; Cuddy's card dividing the flow of reddish black sludge gushing out. When the foul liquid hit the rubber mat, it boiled into it.

The vampire groaned. In a quick flash of crackles and creaks, dried, crumbled and slumped into a pile of grey ash as the faint whiff of corruption and rot drifted up. Resting on the remains, the Star of David glittered, and the stake wobbled a moment before dropping with a clatter onto the rubber mat.

House crawled over to Cuddy, who dropped to her knees, arms crossing over her chest protectively. House gripped her upper arm, dragging her to him as he sat down, tightening his grip around her. "Kick ASS hard core, Cuddles! Geez, way to go medieval on her fanged butt!"

Cuddy clung to him, shaking, her wet hair brushing his face as she gave in to the comfort of him for a few long moments.

"Had to do it, Greg. Sorry you were under there—but I HAD to—" she murmured, sounding as if she was fighting back tears. Awkwardly House stroked her back, suddenly aware that she'd dropped his jacket during the fight and he was now touching clingy wet shirt. He cleared his throat, feeling his heartbeat finally slowing, the adrenaline wearing off now.

"Yeah well, the good of the many and all that---"

"Damn it. You still have a boner—" Cuddy whined against his neck, not moving away. House exhaled like a leaking tire.

"Oh come on—Ninja valkyrie woman goes righteous Hebrew on the badass vampire, flashing her mightily impressive rack in the process and I'm not suppose to react? DUH! As long as I have blood and testosterone, hydraulics are going to happen, thank you very much. Especially here."

Cuddy barked out a tired laugh against his shoulder, "The women's locker room?"

"Oh yeah. And if we didn't have a dead pathologist and—" he looked over at the heaped remains of the vampire, "—A major dust buster job ahead of us cramping my style, I'd jump you. Big time."

Cuddy smothered her snort along his neck.

EPILOG

9:42 P.M.

The room was quiet, curtains drawn and the low seductive strains of Generique rolled out. Cuddy pulled the blanket up just under her bare chest and speared another bite of waffle. She leaned over and fed it to House, then took one for herself, dipping it into the syrup in the Styrofoam box. "So good. Thanks."

"Double bacon—" He replied, smirking. "And chargeable to the CDC."

"This time," Cuddy mused. "Next vampire that gets in to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital means we pick up our own Waffle World tab. You up for that?"

"I," House murmured, reaching for her and dragging her across his chest, "Am up for a lot of things, Doctor Cuddy. Did I ever show you my own personal stake technique?"

"Twice," she laughed, "Although I haven't turned to dust yet."

"Mmmmm—practice makes perfect," House murmured, reaching for her hips under the blanket.

End.